


en passant

by GenOfEve



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Chess, Crushes, GeorgeNotFound Has Heterochromia Iridum (Video Blogging RPF), Heterochromia, M/M, Patches is sick for a little bit but she’ll be fine Dream just worries way too much, Pining, Rivalry, Rivals to lovers but they’re polite about it, Smoking, Travel, dream doesn’t drink, george is a chess grandmaster, i could never do that to patches, idk wtf to tag this as usual, it’s a chess au hell yeah, the homoeroticness of chess, they’re both competitive chess players, we’re on our queens gambit type shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:54:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29798421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GenOfEve/pseuds/GenOfEve
Summary: George is one of the younger chess grandmasters, and each time Dream has faced him, he’s lost. It’s a great wound to his pride, but George plays strong, and Dream finds he doesn’t mind losing to him so much anymore, especially when George smiles at him like that afterwards.While in the UK, George invites Dream to play a game with him casually over drinks in the motel bar. Dream tries to decline, but it’s just one game, George swears, just a game.It’s never just a game.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 176
Kudos: 545
Collections: MCYT





	1. pawns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kinda having a shit time rn so here is my purely self indulgent chess fic that is turning out far longer than i expected it to be u will pry it from my cold dead hands

London in December, Dream decides, is absolutely _shit._

It had been promised to him that it was only a three minute walk to the gas station from his motel, a straight path along the main road with no foreseen obstacles, minimal other pedestrians considering the time of night and a well lit area to deter thieves and other nasties, promised to him by the app on his phone.

Three minutes, that’s all it would take, all it would take to purchase a meal or two for the minuscule amount of time he had left in London, no more than two nights. There was nothing to keep him in London, not when he had family hoping for his presence over the Christmas holidays, and a best friend taking up space in their house.

And Patches, of course. 

_Loving Patches, who had seemed off when Dream left for his flight, seemed drowsy and unlike herself. Dream had given her an extra scratch behind the ears in apology, and Sapnap had promised he would look after her, would ring Dream if anything changed, told him not to worry and shooed him out the door._

_Dream remained worried, however._

His phone had promised him that it would only take three minutes. He had taken this walk in the days prior, he trusted it.

His phone _promised_ it.

What it did _not_ promise, however, in fact, what it _conveniently_ left out, was the instability of London’s cold, miserable weather, which had caught Dream just over a minute into his wandering, and markedly quickened his pace.

Dream makes the three minute walk in two.

There’s water droplets in Dream’s hair, still clinging on for dear life, a memory of the cold, drizzling evening outside, and he shakes them from him like a dog as he steps through the automatic sliding doors, a crackling chime from a speaker somewhere indicating his presence to the man behind the counter, who bends, distracted, over a magazine.

The man does not react.

The fluorescent lights of the gas station hum ominously overhead, bathing the interior of the building in a cool white light, flickering just barely, but it’s enough to irritate Dream’s pounding head, to give the ache more ammo, besides his inability to sleep, and the mounting stress that hangs over his shoulders, after days of living upon a chessboard, both in competition, and in practice.

_Far too much time spent staring down at repetitive squares, counting letters and numbers, analysing each possible next move, and which moves could follow on the next, and the next, and the next, until a singular decision was made._

His last game had been _spectacularly_ drawn out, and painful to the point where Dream thought perhaps he would never get the flickering afterimage of the chessboard out of his vision. But, he had to admit, his opponent had been determined and strong, and he had taken the defeat in stride, despite clearly being disheartened about losing, losing oh-so close to the grand final.

The grand final, which _Dream_ would now have the opportunity to participate in.

He exhales, slow and deliberate, considering the ready-made meals in the fridge in front of him, frowning at the limited selection, and wrinkling his nose as he imagines what some of the options would taste like after being microwaved.

The fridge blows cool air onto him when he opens the glass door and cautiously grabs a microwave lasagne, and he shivers when it brushes along the damper parts of his body.

Outside, the rain has stopped, and Dream wonders if perhaps this is an omen, a sign of more bad luck to come, that he just so happened to be rained on for the briefest of moments.

He brushes the thought aside as he balances the lasagne while he picks up a cup of instant noodles, and a packet of painkillers, making his way toward the old man at the counter, still absorbed in his magazine.

As Dream places his items on the counter, and the man straightens up, the contents of the magazine is revealed, and Dream stills at the sight of a pair of eyes — eyes he’s looked into before.

They’re a deep, rich brown, almost black, save for a small segment in one of the irises, which is struck through with a silvery, oceanic blue.

_No, he couldn’t ever forget those eyes._

From the glossy pages of British Chess Magazine, a familiar face greets him.

_George._

Currently one of the younger grandmasters in the United Kingdom, and he’s stood in the way of Dream’s own goals to become grandmaster _twice_ now.

Once in Italy, George had taken him out with _Anastasia's mate,_ forced him to move his king into a more vulnerable position after exposing him to a check from his knight, and walling him off with a rook. Each of his moves would have led to a checkmate.

In Paris, it was a _double bishop mate,_ a classic, annoying checkmate that Dream had seethed over, beat himself up for not noticing, for being so _blind._ Dream would never admit that it was because he’d been paying too much attention to the shape of George’s slender wrists and hands, to the curl of his eyelashes, to the way he’d chew on his bottom lip each time he hesitated, each time he was uncertain about a move.

Each time Dream lost though, George had simply smiled, a gentle curve of a full, pink mouth, and shaken his hand, with no sense of bravado or bragging. He was polite, and to the point, and had greeted Dream in the passing crowd at times before other tournaments, even those he was not participating in, simply viewing.

He would greet Dream with a shout of his name, a quick wave with a slender hand, and a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes, eyes that never once failed to stall Dream in his tracks, to make him fumble in their shared banter.

Dream would be lying if he said he hadn’t spared a glance or two, when George’s gaze was focused on the chessboard, tried to catch a glimpse of the icy sky, shot through mahogany.

There was never anything more than that. Some light, friendly rivalry perhaps, the occasional name drop in an interview to tease, to say that he was _‘looking forward to seeing him again’,_ an odd conversation here and there, but never anything more.

_Except, of course, maybe in Dream’s head._

“Anything else?”

Dream jolts out of his revere and stumbles over his words.

“Oh— Uh yes, a lighter and pack of Marlborough’s. Gold, if you’ve got them.”

The man thinks a moment and nods, turns to collect the cigarettes, and Dream turns his gaze back to the magazine once more, back to George.

George gazes at the lens of camera from over a chessboard, the chessboard so clearly being used as a prop and little else, because Dream knows George would _never_ get his pieces tied like that.

Unlike the posed chessboard however, George is natural and alive.

His mouth is fallen open in a laugh, a wide grin as he tells something to whoever mans the lens, confident and certain.

_And pretty,_ Dream thinks, morose, as he takes in the dusty colour of his mouth, and the striking irregularity of his eyes, _very pretty._

Pretty won’t help him this time though, not for this tournament.

This time, _this time,_ Dream _has_ this finale.

This time, Dream will be the one who smiles genuinely at him, and shakes his hand, and is left standing as George leaves the room.

_This time, Dream will have George’s full attention, not the other way around._

“Anything else?” The man asks once more, a tired smile crossing weathered features.

“Actually, yeah,” Dream taps the glossy pages of the magazine, “Are you selling a copy of this?”

  
  
  
  
  


The plastic bag crinkles as Dream shakes the contents of it onto his motel bed. He reaches for the painkillers first, tears into the cardboard box with minimal grace, and pops two from the foil blisters, swallowing them dry and wincing as they stick, leaving a bitter, powdery taste.

He steals a drink from the tap in the bathroom, rinses away the powdery taste, before returning to his purchases. 

The lasagne is placed in the microwave, and as the timer starts, Dream reaches for the cigarettes and his lighter, tapping one out of the packet, before pausing and picking up the magazine, and making his way to the bathroom.

He opens the small window above the bathtub, and steps over the porcelain edges to stand in it, angling his body toward the window as he lights his cigarette.

With the cigarette between his lips, he flicks through the pages of the chess magazine, careful as to not ash on them, lest he set off the motel’s fire alarm, and alert staff to his prohibited indoor smoking habit. 

After a few turns of the pages, George’s face stares up at him. Dream pauses to shift the magazine in one hand, and ash his cigarette out the window with the other, taking a long drag, before resting it between his lips once more.

He takes in the double page spread, the list of interview questions about the upcoming tournament indicating to Dream that the magazine is a little outdated, because the tournament they’re talking about is _this one._

George’s brand of easygoing sarcasm somehow carries well even over text, lighthearted and friendly despite the stubborn air it carries, and Dream can almost hear the way his accent would curl around each of the words, can almost see the shapes his mouth would make.

He’s discussing the threat his possible opponents might pose to him, his excitement about each one, and when Dream reads his name, his _real_ name, he freezes.

Dream’s lip curls at not only the use of his first name, but at the way the interviewer describes him, how he poses him as a beginner, as zero threat in the competition due to his prior losses to George.

His sour demeanour shifts quickly however, when he reaches George’s response.

_“I don’t think he likes to be called that, you know. He goes by Dream,”_ George’s transcription scolds the interviewer, _“And he’s damn good at chess. He may not be exactly overflowing with experience like some of the older players here, but neither was I when I won my first championship. He’s a strong player, an aggressive player, and I eagerly await to see how he plays this year.”_

Dream finishes his cigarette, and he heads to his suitcase for the travel-sized chess board within, setting it up to use after dinner. 

_He needs to practice. George is eagerly awaiting to see his play style._

After all, it is _him_ he’ll be versing.

And if, before practicing, the pages of George’s interview are carefully removed and folded, tucked away in a book for safe keeping, that’s between Dream and the four walls of this motel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chess is the bomb i will take zero criticism on this


	2. knights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In one of the very few press interviews Dream had agreed to, he had admitted that walking in always made him anxious, stirred up his thoughts like a kicked nest of hornets, and often he struggled to settle that before his first play.
> 
> It was the one weakness that he had ever made public.
> 
> And now, George, his opponent, his rival, instead of abusing that knowledge, offers him comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 2 babey let’s do this let’s get this GOING hell yes we are here let’s do it
> 
> George makes an appearance!!!! how exciting is that!!!
> 
> I hope u like it!!! pls come talk to me on tumblr!!! my names the same!!!
> 
> ps: mentions of sick animals in this one!! they’re ok, Dream’s jsut a worrier, I promise

It’s still dark when Dream wakes up, the room bathed in only the dimmest of glows from the street lamps outside, and the digital clock on the bedside table next to him.

He can’t have been asleep long, his body is slow to sit up, his mind confused by an eerie sensation that swamps him, the odd theory that perhaps something, somehow, is wrong.

The clock politely informs Dream that it is two in the morning. He’s only been asleep for two hours.

At first, he thinks perhaps he had a nightmare of some kind, but moments later, the groggy confusion lightens as he realises he can hear the sharp bell of his phone ringing.

He blinks, a hard, slow squeeze of his eyelids, and rubs at them with one hand, while the other lazily palms the sheets, searching for the offending noise.

He grumbles when he finds it, and frowns at the caller ID.

“Sap,” he croaks, swallows, “Sap, what the _hell?_ It’s fucking _two in the morning,_ man, the grand finale is—”

“Shit, dude, I forgot about the time zones I’m so sorry, but look, man, it’s— It’s Patches.”

Dream’s back straightens. He’s awake now.

“What do you mean?”

“Look, she’s probably fine, but she’s just been throwing up and I’m gonna take her to the 24-hour vet just in case, and I thought you should know. Shit, Dream, I’m _so_ sorry, I didn’t mean to—“

“No, no, it’s fine,” _it’s not fine,_ “Um, look, just— Just call me if anything changes, please?”

“Yeah dude, of course, but I promise she’s gonna be okay, I just wanted to—“

“I know,” _he doesn’t know,_ “Just, um, grab one of— one of the hoodies on the floor in my room. It might help her calm down, she doesn’t like the carrier.”

There’s a hesitation. Dream thinks he can feel Sapnap’s concern for him through the phone, _all the way across the ocean._

“... Alright. Look, uh— Just go back to sleep, yeah? I didn’t mean to wake you. I’ll text you when we get news, so I don’t wake you. If it’s anything big though, I’ll call you, I _swear.”_

“Alright. Love you, Sap,” his voice shakes, “Thanks.”

“It’s all good, dude. Love you too.”

The call ends.

Dream can’t breathe.

He sits in the darkness, and listens to the neighbouring bustle of the city, both nearby and in the distance.

He stares at the walls, mind racing, heart pounding as he thinks of Patches, poor Patches, sick and distressed.

_She hates the carrier. She hates the vet. He should have asked Sapnap to get her a treat._

_She gets nervous._

_Oh god, maybe he should never have left._

Dream remains staring at the wallpaper, at the Victorian style patterns that appear almost dark grey in this miserable light, he stares until his head hurts, he stares until his breathing finally slows.

But his breathing only escalates once more, escalated into broken gasps the second he starts thinking again, thinking about anything other than the blue-grey wallpaper, and it’s fancy, curling, decorative patterns.

Hours of staring, hours of swirling wallpaper, hours of hyperventilating, until finally, at six in the morning, his phone buzzes once.

A text.

He opens it with trembling fingers.

_“They’re gonna board Patches overnight to keep an eye on her, but she should be fine, I promise. Good luck dude.”_

She should be fine.

Dream continues to panic silently nonetheless.

_What if she’s not fine?_

He closes his eyes when he drops the phone back into the bedclothes, scrunches them tight and tugs on the ends of his hair with shaking fingers, tries to think of anything other than this current scenario, _anything that isn’t Patches, sick and without him._

He inhales slow.

Exhales slower.

_“Sicilian defense,”_ he murmurs, _“Ruy López, Queen’s gambit…”_

He lists every chess opening he can think of off the top of his head. Goes over the movements behind his closed eyes, visualises the pieces from his board at home as best as he can, carved from wood and lacquered in rich warm tones.

He does it again.

_And again._

And once more, until his breathing settles.

When he showers, the water just a touch too hot, just this side of scalding, he goes over them again, alphabetically, the pieces moving in his minds’ eye.

_“Benko gambit, Benko opening,”_ he whispers to the tiled walls, to the water that runs in rivulets as a result of his shaking, rolling down his nervous body, to the steam building in the air, _“Benoni defense, Bird’s opening, Bishop’s opening—“_

He showers until his skin prunes.

_Washes his hair twice._

_Brushes his teeth thrice._

The motel’s towels are soft, and he whispers once more, whispers to the soft material of the damp towel, discarded to the floor, to the crinkling of the garment bag as he unzips it, to the muted dark shades of jade that colour his suit.

“Open games,” he swallows as he re-ties his black tie for the third time, “That’s— That’s _Vienna game, Philidor defense, Scotch game—“_

He sorts the openings into categories as he smooths his suit down, adjusts the collar of the white button-up underneath it.

One of the motel staff knock on his door — _his seven-thirty wake-up call, and the provided breakfast, as requested._

They compliment Dream on his suit, and politely don’t mention anything about the dark circles beneath his eyes, or the way he hasn’t brushed his hair.

Dream gives them a tight lipped smile, and a nod of thanks.

He doesn’t particularly care for their opinion of him right now. He will later, but right now?

_He couldn’t give a fuck._

The toast is fine, not too dry, nor burnt or undercooked, and yet Dream can’t bring himself to swallow.

He chews it, over and over, until the texture of it makes him nauseated, and he spits it into the nearby waste-bin.

_His teeth are brushed for the fourth time._

He resumes staring at the wallpaper, until the flowing, curling floral details all begin to blur together.

He can do this.

_She’s going to be fine._

He sets up his travel board with shaking hands, plays a game against himself, scolds himself for not noticing his own mistakes, deafens his anxious concerns with analysing each possibility that could come up.

He doesn’t really remember how George plays.

He never studied his opponents, never has, laughs about it when he reads in the magazines about how he _must have,_ from the boldness of his moves, the brash aggressiveness of his openings, the way he stakes his claim over the board.

No, he never studies his opponents. He’s never had to.

But now, with the added blanket of stress over Patches, with the anticipation of George’s gaze resting on him, on his hands, on his pieces, with the nauseating sensation of his empty stomach— _now,_ he wishes he had.

_Just this once._

  
  
  
  


It’s only a short walk to the conference centre where the tournament is being held, no more than a block and a half at best. Dream opts to walk, hopes the cool breeze and the minutes to himself will help settle his ever unstable thoughts.

_It doesn’t._

There’s a lack of rain this time, thankfully, and Dream cautiously brushes a hand through his messy hair, hopes the press won’t take note of it and his bruising, swollen eyes, as he offers the cameras a practiced smile.

The press shout questions, shout his name, both his birth name and his nickname, and he’s stubborn enough to only respond to the ones who call him Dream.

“Dream— are you nervous for this upcoming match?”

_God, yes._

“I’m feeling pretty confident actually. Third times the charm, and all that.”

He grins, and jolts at the sensation of an elbow in his side, turns to scowl at the offending person.

“Oh, you _wish.”_

A pair of mismatched eyes wink at him, chocolate against ice, and it’s then that Dream realises that the person who just jabbed him, the person he’s absolutely _glaring_ at is—

_“George.”_

The name leaves his lips almost breathlessly, and the glare slips from his tired face, slips into something softer, as George offers him his own smile, and Dream is blinded suddenly by the flash of multiple cameras.

_“Dream.”_

George’s tone mimics Dream’s own soft, breathless one, and Dream can feel his mouth go dry as he gives him a careful onceover, taking in the stark contrast between the formality of the suit he wears, and the shadows under his eyes.

He squints, just the smallest amount, eyebrows tugging together for only the briefest of moments, and Dream knows he’s been caught.

It’s the same expression George gets when he’s spotted a move that seems almost too good to be true.

“Why don’t you walk in with me? The press will love it.”

His voice is soft, and Dream has to angle his head toward George to listen, only hoping that the flush on his cheeks isn’t able to be picked up by the cameras as he nods.

In one of the very few press interviews Dream had agreed to, he had admitted that walking in always made him anxious, stirred up his thoughts like a kicked nest of hornets, and often he struggled to settle that before his first play.

It was the one weakness that he had ever made public.

And now, George, his opponent, his _rival,_ instead of abusing that knowledge, offers him comfort.

“And you’d love it too, I’m sure,” Dream aims for the casual banter they’d once shared in Paris, when they’d collided in the audience of a beginner’s tournament, a week before their own match, before Dream’s loss to George’s bishop had left him bitter, “After all, you’re practically _obsessed_ with me.”

His voice is weak. 

George is kind enough to not bring it up.

Instead he laughs, links his arm with Dream’s, as though they are old friends, and not enemies, not people who share the smallest of glances in crowded rooms, not people who share smiles in passing only to remain stone-faced when paired against one another.

No, today, they walk in _together._

“You’re distracted,” George murmurs, and Dream keeps his gaze fixed on where the fabric of their suits brush, trusting George to guide them, steady, “And tired.”

George wears navy blue. It’s stunning against Dream’s forest green.

_Dream thinks they go well together._

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“Mm,” he quirks up the corner of his lips, spares George a glance, tries not to stumble when he finds those eyes fixed on him once more, “I could beat you with my eyes closed.”

George laughs again.

“Well, good luck with that. I plan to have my eyes on you at all times.”

Dream flushes when George smirks at him, and prays he doesn’t notice.

George chuckles, low, distinct.

_He absolutely notices._

They walk in, walk to the board that has been designated to them, arms linked, heads bowed as they whisper to each other, George making snarky comments about the press members that he recognises, and Dream trying desperately not to laugh.

The press do love them together. George is right.

Dream thinks he likes them together too.

_If only things were different._

They separate. Take their seats.

Dream breathes as the room is flooded with a deafening silence.

His arm is warm where George had gripped it. George’s voice echoes in his ears, a once soothing distraction from his thoughts, now faint and fading quickly.

Dream plays white this round.

_He inhales._

_He exhales._

Breathing doesn’t seem to work. 

Patches rests, heavy in his mind.

With little thought, with careless aggression, he moves, and hits the timer.

_Pawn e2 to e4._

George’s fingers flex, long and slender. Dream can’t help but stare, tired, distracted, just like he said.

_Pawn c7 to c5._

The _Sicilian defense._ One of George’s best.

There’s a hushed murmur in the crowd.

Dream can do this. He glances up.

George stares back at him, face blank, unreadable.

Dream smiles at the sight of George raising a brow, daring him to move.

So he does.

_Pawn d2 to d4._

The _Smith-Morra gambit._

He can do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did u guys know I love u

**Author's Note:**

> tracks i’ve been vibing to in the writing of this fic:
> 
> big deal - dream machines  
> ásgeir - stardust  
> mouche - cosmic twist  
> plastic bertrand - ca plane pour moi  
> nilüfer yanya - in your head


End file.
